


it's all subtle and submarine

by atheoryon, foolishnotions



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Beaches, Dirty Thoughts, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Marvel Cameos, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Ocean, POV Clint Barton, Past Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Past Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Pining, Rivalry, Surfing, tho there's v little surfing for a fic abt surf teachers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 00:35:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20106244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheoryon/pseuds/atheoryon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolishnotions/pseuds/foolishnotions
Summary: Barnes was alternating between glaring at Clint, probably because the kids’ laughter was distracting his own flock of tiny humans, and helping the members of said flock back onto their boards, with the softest smile on his face, small laugh wrinkles around his eyes. Which was. Yeah. Fuckin’ Barnes.Or; Clint and Bucky teach kids how to surf and hate each other, until they don't.





	it's all subtle and submarine

**Author's Note:**

> it's here!
> 
> this fic has been a labour of love, alcohol, copious amounts of coffee and screaming. many thanks to the ppl of the WHRBB for organising this, the bdbd for sprinting and yelling about this w me and my mom for making most of the coffee. 
> 
> the wonderful art for this made by foolishnotions can be found within the work here, and on tumblr [Here](foolishquestions.tumblr.com/post/186813597676/art-submission-for-the-winterhawkbigbang-reverse).

The sun was just starting to set, drawing long shadows in a pink-purple-orange haze along the beach, with the first stars starting to peek through the darkness in the east. The small beach house where the surfboards were stored looked almost idyllic with its white wood, washed out by years of sunlight and sea-salt air, now a soft pink in the evening sun. 

It would be a beautiful scene, had it not been slightly interrupted by two grown men arguing over early 2000’s pop music. Suppose you were take a picture from behind, it would look absolutely gorgeous. Two men, surf boards under their arms, the soft sand and beach houses serving as backdrop. 

From the front, however, the picture showed a different story. 

Clint was just taking a breath, ready to defend Britney over Madonna, because  _ honestly _ , how dare Barnes think Madonna is superior, when out of the storage hut came a tall, black man, somehow still wearing full black when summer’s been up in full swing for about a week. Clint took a quick look at Barnes before visibly steeling himself. Fury feeling the need to talk them could, in no conceivable universe, be a good thing. 

“Barnes. Barton.” Ah yes, that tone couldn’t be good. “About your training plans for the upcoming summer.” Clint swapped another uneasy glance with Barnes. “In order to use the most of both your capabilities, I’ve decided to pair you two together as part of a test run.” They both opened their mouths to protest, but Fury raised one finger, which effectively silenced them. “You will have to work together, for all of your classes. You will have the time to plan your lessons together for the next three days, building off of your existing ones. I expect top performances from both of you.” 

Barnes finally shook off the confusion from Fury’s news, interrupting him with more anger than Clint thought was really necessary for the situation at hand. “Sir, we barely get along as it is, and now I’m supposed to change up all of my lesson plans just because? Couldn’t you have paired him with Maximoff or-”. Fury levelled him with a glare, also sending one at Clint before he could start in as well.

“Yes. You’re both teaching the same age and level, so therefore your lesson plans should be largely the same. Any personal differences you might have, will remain just that. Now, sort it out, and next time get back here earlier. I need to get my fucking sleep as well, which is impossible if you two keep hanging around ‘till after 10.” Then he was off, stalking away. Clint thought that if this were another universe, he’d have disappeared in black smoke, possibly with dramatic music playing.

Barnes stared at Clint for a good few seconds before dashing into the storage room. “You’re the one closin’ up tonight.” Heaving a dramatic sigh, Clint went after him. The first few minutes putting away their gear, they were both silent, until Barnes spoke up again. “D’ya really prefer Britney?” he asked, casting a sidelong glance over at Clint, and just like that they were off again. 

Even through the semi-awkward of getting changed in the small room, both turned to a different wall, they kept up the discussion until Barnes tossed him the keys to lock up. “We’re going over those lesson plans at nine tomorrow. You better be there, Barton.” 

***

Clint was there at 9 am, thank you very much. 

Well.

He pulled into the parking lot at 9:03, still dressed in his sleeping shirt, not having showered and holding a travel mug of coffee, with a thermos also filled with coffee safely in his backpack. Point was, he was there. Roughly on time. 

Of course, when he walked into the office-conference room-general meeting point, Barnes was already sat there, neatly printed out and labelled and highlighted lesson plans in neat stacks in front of him. Meanwhile, Clint’s lesson plans consisted of three notes on his phone, in compact (unclear, heavily abbreviated) bullet points. 

Barnes looked up when he walked in, one eyebrow raised as he pointedly looked at the clock on the wall. “You’re late.” Clint mockingly raised one of his own eyebrows and sat down as he put his coffee on the table and dug his phone out of his backpack. 

“You’re early.” Admittedly not his best comeback, but hey. It was early, he’d only had one coffee, and Barnes was always early. Barnes’ second eyebrow joined the first, before he nodded and looked down at the lesson plans again. 

“Right. So. We’ve got the kids, intermediate teenagers and advanced teenagers. I was thinking we could compare lesson plans, make sure we’re mostly on the same page and then actually look how we’re going to tea- are you on your phone right now?” Barnes looked up from where he was going over his planner, and really, the guy had a planner? Clint was so fucked.

“Yes, it’s where I keep my lesson plans. You know, digital, save the planet?” Clint quickly shielded his screen from Barnes’ judgmental look, making sure he didn’t see that his lesson plan included a picture of a dog wearing a snapback on a surfboard. He quickly rattled off his general plans for the younger kids, and couldn’t help the slight feeling of competition when Barnes told him he had a bit of a (completely) different approach to teaching. Yes, they were working together, yes it was all very professional and serious, but the guy got on his nerves and he was competitive, okay? Judging by the determined glint in Barnes’ eyes, he probably was just as appalled by Clint’s laid-back teaching as he was by his clear instruction - example - practice, so Clint figured he wasn’t doing that bad.

The next few hours were passed in an  _ almost  _ proper work discussion. They were both passionate about teaching and surfing, but the way they went about, well, everything, clashed. When an argument about the best way to teach the kids how to take care of their gear got a bit too heated, Barnes raised his hands and shut his eyes for a few seconds, leaving Clint to bask in the totally justified glow of having won the argument. 

The feeling didn’t last.

“That’s it, lunch break. I can’t deal with- whatever. Get some food, Barton.” Right. Clint grinned, too many teeth on display. They were definitely revisiting the discussion, if only to get Barnes riled up again. 

Food, however, was always a good idea. He dug his lunch out of his backpack, only dropping one of the several small bags of dog treats and quickly started in on his lunch. 

Across from him, Barnes took out his phone for the first time that day. From the quick glance Clint got at the screen, it was still in perfect condition, without as much as a scratch on it, as opposed to his own phone, which he’d had for four years, and miraculously still worked, despite the many tests of gravity it had endured over the course of those years. 

Satisfied the world hadn’t ended during the four hours they spent working, Barnes shut off his phone (completely. Not just turned it off, but shut it off, completely, as if he was scared he would run out of battery, despite spending most of his days in the sea. Not even Clint’s grandma shut off her phone completely, but that was Barnes for you.)

Throughout the day, other instructors drifted in and out occasionally, but while most of them said a quick hello before they were off to do what they needed to do, Natasha just… sat down on the counter of the small kitchenette and stared at them as they tried to work. When Clint eventually looked up at her, she just raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow and took a sip of her coffee with a pointed glare. 

One of these days, Clint promised himself, he’d fully figure Natasha out. Most importantly, he’d learn the last few of her different glares and figure out what exactly her deal with Barnes was. Ever since they’d both gone to college, Clint had been her go-to booty call, but about a year ago, they’d stopped because of ‘someone’ and a week later she’d shown up to the beach with Barnes in tow. Nat and Barnes had broken off whatever it was they were pretty soon after, but there was still history between them, and Clint hadn’t gotten a call  _ like that _ from her since.

Probably because she was making nice with the boss’ boss, according to the gossip circle, but hey.

With a sigh, he went back to his work, purposefully going against whatever Barnes suggested, even if he agreed with him. Which, most of the time, he only did halfway. Barnes’ genuine frustration at his obvious antics just made it so much  _ fun _ to annoy him. However, even he had to admit that keeping notes on his phone didn’t always work out. He quickly tore a page out of one of Barnes’ notebooks, ignoring his cry of protest, and started taking his own notes properly.

In purple glitter pen.

Taken from Barnes’ pencil case.

Suck it.

***

Clint obviously got the general idea of working together. With the two of them, they could pay more attention to the kids, they would be able to properly help them individually while the other kept watch, different teaching styles worked better for different kids, et cetera. 

Didn’t mean he had to like it. 

He bemoaned just that in the shitty dive bar he was in with Kate, on his third, but probably not his last, beer. “He’s just so, so… straight, Katie-Kate. With his fucking notebooks and planners and color-coordinated lesson plans. He has matching highlighters for his different classes!” His frustration was paired with excessive hand movements, almost knocking over first his beer, then Kate’s pink cocktail monstrosity, then the menu card. 

Kate just laughed, moved the poor drinks out of his arms’ reach and then took his hands in her own. “Sounds like you’re having a shit time. However, you’re not allowed to get fired. It’s your turn to buy Lucky’s food this month.” 

He hung his head in slight exaggeration of his misery, because he’d spent all day looking at paperwork and that  _ sucked _ , okay? Kate very much wasn’t sharing his misery, however, as her face lit up when the door of the bar opened to reveal one America Chavez, and Clint knew that however much he might have had a kind of shitty day - definitely exaggerated, working Barnes up was a lot of fun - it would be greatly improved by watching Kate and America be all cute and gross, still very much stuck in the honeymoon phase.

Even if it did remind him an uncomfortable amount of the fact that he’d been making do with shitty rom-coms, his left hand, and a bottle of lube for the last few months. He stabbed the spike of loneliness back down at that, twisted the metaphorical knife for good measure and decided to enjoy his beer, shitty live music and his best friend’s happiness for tonight.

There’d still be time for wallowing in misery tomorrow, and getting frustrated over the situation with Barnes wouldn’t help it.

There. Rational thought. Look at him go.

Not that it worked, of course. When he got home to an empty apartment, cluttered with stuff he still had to clean that hadn’t bothered him up to this point, and an even emptier bed, he rubbed his face in his hands, dropped his keys onto the kitchen table, and glanced around the dark room. Taking a deep breath, he half-heartedly moved some dishes from the various places he’d put them into the dishwasher and nodded once. An effort was made, at least.

He walked to his bedroom, only stumbling once, and flopped onto the bed face first, spreadeagle and not bothering with changing his clothes. 

As one might expect, he came to regret that choice the next morning. He felt gross, sweaty, smelling vaguely like beer, and with a nasty taste in his mouth. At least he didn’t have a hangover, but Clint didn’t consider that much of a brag as he stood in front of his bathroom mirror, brushing his teeth while he ran a hand through his hair. Definitely not something to be proud of at 32.

Saturday was the one day a week he always had off, but he typically still spent the day at the beach or hanging out with some friends. Yeah, his downward spiral into loneliness was probably just a tad melodramatic, but still. He had let his actual life go neglected for a bit too long, not really paying attention to what was actually going on around him or his future. Although he was definitely starting with the here and now, not the future.

He put on some actual pants (clean, no holes) and a shirt (mostly clean, one hole from getting caught on some barbed wire) and walked into his living room. Look, it had never been the cleanest place in the world. That just wasn’t him. Human dumpster fire, and all that. Even with that not-exactly-honorable title, he did actually have a semblance of control over his living space, he knew where stuff was, or, most likely was. Or, he used to. Now, though, his living room resembled more of an actual dumpster than he felt was truly necessary. 

Clint very briefly considered making a proper list for what he had to that day, but immediately discarded that idea when his phone vibrated with a text from Barnes. Even if Barnes would never find out, which was the most realistic scenario, Clint could just feel a weird Barnes-shaped little creature following him around with… bullet journals and organisational systems. To-do lists were a scam made by stationery companies, meant to get you to buy useless notebooks and fancy pens as part of their capitalist schemes. 

Mind made up, he started cleaning up at random, going from putting away dishes to strewn-around clothes, to another dish and then putting up the poster he’d had lying around for a month, then another sock he found underneath the couch. He properly cleaned for what felt like eons, but was actually more like an hour, until he found an old  _ SURFER _ magazine buried underneath different bits of paper, got distracted reading it and as soon as he sent a text to Thor about a trick he read about, he figured that he had used up his Motivated Hour of the year, so he might as well get another cup o’ joe and make his way to the beach.

However, as he looked around his living room, with the sunlight streaming in through admittedly yet-to-be-cleaned windows, he did feel a lot better. It was still cluttered, but it wasn’t  _ sad _ cluttered, just more well-lived cluttered. His living room felt almost fresh instead of just the place where he kicked his feet up for a nap and watched shitty Netflix shows.

He quickly snapped a picture to send to Natasha, because she’d been telling him to go clean up for a week now, so she would be marginally proud, at least. He took out the trash as the coffee steadily started dripping into the pot. Coffee was always the best thing, but it was even better now that he felt like he’d actually accomplished something. Huh. 

It wasn’t like Clint didn’t take care of himself, or felt like he didn’t accomplish anything. He was damn proud of his surfing abilities, the joy he got to give little kids (and teens and adults as well, but the  _ kids _ , man, their  _ faces _ ) when they started getting the hang of surfing. He had a damn good job, friends to hang out with and the best part-time dog ever. It also wasn’t that he felt like he wasn’t complete or missing something, but still. It was nice to come home to someone. 

Figuring he didn’t have the alcohol to blame on his melancholy this time, he shook his head, drained the last of his coffee and got into his car. Nothing quite like the salt of the sea and the wind in his hair to clear his head. 

Sadly for, well, most of Clint’s life, getting into the wetsuit was something he’d never  _ quite  _ figured out how to do smoothly. As he was struggling with getting his arms in properly, the door opened. Clint jumped, let out an undignified yelp, and almost fell flat on his face, to the exasperated amusement of one James Barnes. “Just can’t get enough of me, can you, Barnes?” Clint was fully aware it wasn’t exactly a smooth line, with how he was lying on the floor in a tangle of limbs, wetsuit, and sand on his face because  _ everything _ was always covered in sand. 

“I don’t know, Barton, it’s your day off, not mine. You’re the one visitin’.” Aw, no, that was the actual flaw in the line, Barnes’ ridiculous schedule. Who picked Tuesday as their regular day off from work instead of the weekend? Foregoing a rebuttal, Clint groaned, tried to get up, failed miserably, knocked his head against the bench and dropped back onto the floor. Luckily, Barnes decided to spare him any further torment (for now), just grabbing some rope from his locker. 

Not that that helped a lot. Barnes’ locker was one of the higher ones, and Barnes was  _ tiny _ . Well. He was something like 5’9”, but still. He was  _ tiny _ to Clint. And to the locker. Which meant he had to stretch to open his locker and he was wearing a skintight  _ wet _ wetsuit. Which meant that with the angle from the floor, Clint got an amazing view of Barnes’ ass. Look, yeah, much as the guy annoyed him, Clint had known he was attractive. He was fairly certain it was one of the requirements for getting hired, with how everyone working there looked. So yeah, Barnes, attractive, sure. Also annoying, also sure. Most of the time when Clint saw him, he was wearing a wetsuit. It was kind of their job, it shouldn’t catch him off guard like that. Yet, for some fucking reason, his ass just looked like the sweetest fucking dessert Clint had ever wanted in his life. 

Yeah, clearing his head was absolutely necessary.

***

Clint was officially deleting every nice thing he’d ever thought about Barnes’ ass from his mental browsing history. It still looked good, which, admittedly, made it worse, but the guy was  _ impossible  _ to work with. Clint was  _ this _ close to traumatizing a gaggle of eight-year-olds, because he was going to murder Barnes. 

Yeah, he’d known something like this might happen, of course he’d known that. His and Barnes’ teaching styles were completely different. They’d done the first fifteen minutes of explaining stuff together, and then divided the group into two to start actually practicing. They’d prepped it like that, it had all gone smooth, not a single blemish in sight. But now, Clint was surrounded by four little kids on tiny surf boards, all happily kicking around and laughing as Clint went over the technique with exaggerated movements, making sure they all got it, whilst Barnes-

Barnes was alternating between glaring at Clint, probably because the kids’ laughter was distracting his own flock of tiny humans, and helping the members of said flock back onto their boards, with the softest smile on his face, small laugh wrinkles around his eyes. Which was. Yeah. Fuckin’ Barnes. The next thing he knew, one of Barnes’ kids figured it out, proudly standing on her board. It was enough to snap Clint out of his little glare battle, focusing all of his attention back on his kids, because yeah, he’d better be making sure all of his kids get it before all of Barnes’ did.

Which they did.

Fuck yeah.

He absolutely didn’t gloat about that when they all got together at the bar afterwards. Typically he didn’t really hang around Barnes, preferring Natasha or Thor, but Fury’s stern glance had made him change course, plopping down next to Steve, across from Barnes and Sam. “So, my kids completed the goals for today first.” Subtle, friendly, open, and inviting. On to a winner, Barton.

“At least mine didn’t spend half the lesson laughing because their teacher was pretending to be an octopus.” 

“At least mine had fun.” 

Barnes took a long gulp of his beer, his throat working as he swallowed, and Clint resolutely tore his eyes away, staring into Barnes’ bright blue eyes, and holy  _ futzing  _ Christ had those always been so blue? If it weren’t for the clear argument Barnes was cooking up about his teaching methods, Clint might have waxed poetically about them, comparing them to the ocean or the sky or some of the other romantic novel crap Natasha liked to pretend she didn’t read.

Barnes set down his beer, slightly harder than strictly necessary if you asked Clint, opened his mouth, and yep, there it was. Within a few minutes, Clint had completely forgotten about getting his own beer, or Sam and Steve sitting at the table next to them, completely focused on Barnes. Their argument quickly evolved from where it had started with that day’s lesson, quickly turning into a debate on the latest in pop culture, professional surfers, and even the superior sleeping positions, everything outside their little bubble completely lost.

They missed Sam and Steve occasionally snickering over their argument; Monica Rambeau defeating Thor in an arm wrestling match, despite most of the bar cheering her on; they missed Natasha and Maria going home a lot earlier than they normally would with matching suspicious blank looks, despite Clint claiming he always knew when Natasha had something going on and Bucky still using the “I’m the most recent ex therefore it’s not stalking” excuse.

It wasn’t ‘till Barnes eventually threw his hands up in defeat after Clint’s seven-point argument as to why Nirvana was the most influential band of the 90s, that they realised it had actually gotten kind of late, especially for a weeknight. Sadly, Clint’s victory was short lived as he got out his phone and realised Kate had already sent him a few texts about still having to feed Lucky that night.  _ Aw, Lucky, no _ , Clint never forgot about Lucky. 

He yelled out a quick excuse to Barnes, winning that night’s argument was a reason to let Barnes pay his tab. After that, he ran off, tripping over a few umbrellas and then jamming his shoulder into the doorframe in his haste to get back to his apartment. He did, however, make it back in time that Lucky wasn’t too hungry, and Katie-Kate, bless her furious little heart, had been nice enough to walk Lucky already, so he could just dump his food in his bowl, refresh the water and only spill some of it, pour him some more food because  _ literal  _ puppy eyes, and quickly ruffle his head, before flopping face-down onto the bed and falling asleep, dead to the world for the next few hours.

***

Clint probably shouldn’t have let everything escalate the way it did.

Barnes started it, of course, Clint would never be so petty, but Clint was the older, wiser, more matu- yeah, he wasn’t even kidding Lucky with that one. 

Still.

He and Barnes had been teaching together for two weeks now, and of course the students cottoned on to the fact that they didn’t like each other. It wasn’t like they actively tried to hide it, nor did it affect the learning rate of the students, but those kids could  _ gossip _ , Clint was pretty sure they were all being threatened with the apocalypse raining down on them if they didn’t discuss all the little scraps of personal life they got from their teachers.

Knowing the Gen Z-fuckers, they probably wouldn’t mind the apocalypse, point being, they gossiped a lot. It led to the point where kids he’d taught in previous years came up to him and asked him about teaching with Barnes with a gleam in their eyes and shit-eating grins. 

That should have been the point where Clint told them to knock it off, they were colleagues, professionals, who worked together, and any personal differences between them should stay just like that, between them.

Of course, that was what he should have done.

What Clint did however, was raise his voice, making sure Barnes heard him, telling the three kids in front of him how Barnes didn’t know how to have fun and how maybe it’d help if they would, pretty please, fully explain to him what the concept entailed. Barnes gave him a full-on murder glare at that, and that really,  _ really  _ was the moment Clint should have stopped their petty feud, sat down with Barnes over a cuppa joe, decide to let their stuff go and just focus on teaching their classes. Because, as soon as his gaze dropped to the gaggle of barely-teenagers in front of him, his whole expression changed. He looked softer, nodding to what the kids were telling him. The soft smile stayed on his face, even when he looked up at Clint for a second, and that was the moment Clint  _ really  _ should have cut the whole thing off. 

Look, Clint would be the first to admit he had a complete lack of self-preservation. He went for things head first, eyes closed, stumbling into love and lust alike with all the grace of a newborn deer and the emotional preservation instincts that made his old therapists jerk awake at night, at least in his mind.

Yeah, Barnes was hot and his angry looks directed at Clint usually only spurred him on. Clint was a disaster like that, a bit of a murder glare did it for him, and Barnes had perfected that look. The soft look on his face, wrinkles by his eyes from smiling the sweetest smile Clint had ever seen and the sun lighting up his golden tan, surrounded by his flock of kids made Clint give pause, the moment stretching for what was probably only a second at most, but Clint felt like he could live in the moment forever and die a happy man like that. 

Right up until the moment broke, Barnes looking back to his kids, and Clint snapped out of his reverie. 

Not that the soft smile on his face had been for him, of course, Clint didn’t get those looks. Clint got heated looks, if he actually bothered to go to a club; he got riotous laughter from the kids when he acted like an idiot to demonstrate a technique; he got Natasha’s ‘it’s a miracle I put up with you, but I also actually like you, why’ looks when he tripped over himself or drank too much coffee; he didn’t get sweet smiles like they had all the time in the world and no one to answer to. 

But fuck, he really wanted to.

The past two weeks with Barnes had been a weird kind of limbo, filled with arguments and annoyance but, loathe as he is to admit it, they’d also definitely started getting along. Quiet, stolen moments where they shared a look over something a kid did, packing up together when they were the ones to lock up. The moments never lasted long, always broken, either by an oblivious kid or intentionally by one of them, making a jibe about something or other. 

Still, those small moments were the things Clint treasured, folded up in a small space near his heart, just something for him to keep,  _ his  _ in a way that not a lot of things in his life were, or ever had been. Along with the light, soft moments came a feeling of guilt, which settled low and heavy in his gut when he laid in bed, knowing Barnes- who was he kidding, he’d been thinking of him as  _ James  _ in the privacy of his own mind for a while now - knowing James didn’t feel the same, that it was just him, pathetically taking these moments, wishing they were more, wishing they could be more, wishing- 

Wishes were for fairytales anyways. Wishes were for kids, looking up at the night sky and the stars. Wishes were granted by gods in mythology to a brilliant Odysseus or a talented Orpheus. Clint was just Icarus, flying too close to the sun, basking in the heat but knowing he’ll fall before he gets to the sun, but not wanting to save himself, needing to get higher, closer to the impossible brightness of James, wanting to  _ burn _ . 

Clint was Icarus, Clint was Echo, Clint was Hephaestus, Clint was Mary Magdalene, Clint was Basil Hallward, Clint was the fucking archetype, reincarnated throughout history again and again, inspiring story after story, poet after poet, muse after muse, and  _ fuck _ , those poets knew it hurt, they all fucking knew it and told it, time and time again, and yet it still caught him off guard, every look James sent his way slowly chipping away at his resolve, crumbling his walls like the Jewish people walking around the city walls of Jericho, God on their side and him without a chance.

***

Apparently he was also hellbent on self-destruction, pushing every single one of James’ buttons because he just couldn’t help himself, fighting for every scrap of James’ attention he could get, even if that meant playing devil’s advocate on whatever issue James and Steve were discussing, anything to get James’ undivided attention. 

Clint liked to think he wasn’t  _ just  _ desperate for attention, whatever way he could get it. He loved getting James riled up, loved getting him to fully explain things, because yeah the guy was hot, but have you seen his mind? Even better. It also wasn’t just James. Clint had always had a penchant for trouble, right down to his gay awakening, or more accurately, ‘not just into girls’ awakening, in Conservative Town, Iowa, a lovely guy on the debate team who’d bulked up during the summer after junior year, who always had to have the last word in a discussion. Natasha had been a forest fire Clint probably burned his fingers on more times than he should have. 

Not the best track record, admittedly, but a familiar one. Clint could do arguments and discussions, he could do this. He could get into dumb fights over less than nothing, he could never find out what James looked like first thing in the morning, still mostly asleep and golden sunlight on his face, he could do that.

***

Or, he might have been able to do that, had it not been for the fact that he saw James more days than not, actively had to spend time with him, and shared a mostly overlapping circle of friends, because none of them had too much of a life outside of work, Katie-Kate notwithstanding of course.

No, Clint just had to see James five or six days a week, had to actually interact with him for a fair amount of that. Whilst a fuck ton of tiny and less-tiny kids might seem like a great buffer, Clint quickly found out that wasn’t actually the case. 

The lessons and overly curious kids weren’t even the worst part. The worst part was Friday night, just after their last lesson wrapped up. It was an evening lesson, the students were teenagers who already had a few years of lessons under their belt. The lessons themselves were a lot of fun, it required some actual surfing on their part and trying not to laugh at the terrible innuendos and double entendres the kids made. 

They all wrapped up together, joking around with the kids, asking about their weekend plans, playing the stern teacher card to get them to help cleanup. When the last kid, Parker, left, Clint and James shared a tired grin. Clint could feel himself staring at James’ mouth, longer than he probably should, but undeniably drawn to how happy James looked, tired from a day of being up and about, but satisfied, content. 

James blinked, once, slow like a cat, before he systematically started checking to make sure all the lockers were empty, a habit that had annoyed Clint to no end before, but apparently he really was in too deep,  _ Sum 41 _ , playing from one of the many tabs open at all times in Clint’s mind, because this time he just looked at James, leaning against the door post to make sure he’s not in James’ way. 

“Since when do you not complain about me checkin’ all the lockers, Barton? I thought lockers personally offended you?” 

Clint’s eyes snapped up, jerked out of his reverie, to see James’ back was still turned to him. A very lovely back, one might feel inclined to say, especially if James had to stretch to get to the top locker, revealing a line of bare skin that Clint really wanted to get his hands on and-

Right.

He wasn’t in a fucking YA novel.

James had asked a question, one Clint was supposed to be annoyed by, because that’s what they did. “Figured if I hadn’t already annoyed you enough to stop doing it, there’s no help on this forsaken earth for you, Barnes.” 

For the record, he definitely didn’t almost slip up and call him  _ James _ .

He was  _ good  _ at ignoring all those feelings. It actually reminded him an uncomfortable lot of those first two years he’d known Natasha, when she’d shown up at one of his classes, declared them to be study buddies despite the fact that he majored in ornithology and she in Russian history, and hadn’t left him alone since. 

They actually were very good when it came to studying together, and after their first session, they’d gotten coffee together and that was all it took for Clint to fall in love, really. Or rather, Natasha’s exasperated sigh and small smile that followed were what did him in.

Clint was fully aware they’d never actually get anywhere, so he let it slide as just being a crush, which, for a while, it was. 

One morning, when Clint’d been whining about not managing to finish a sudoku puzzle, Natasha had taken it out of his hands, located his mistake within ten seconds and solved the entire thing within another thirty. After proclaiming his undying love, which he did about twice a week, to anyone, from his favorite barista to people that let him pet their dogs, he smacked a kiss on her cheek, purposefully being as obnoxious as possible. 

His intention was to immediately turn back to his coffee, putting some distance between them again, but apparently Natasha had other plans. Her hands tightened slightly on his hips, keeping him trapped in her embrace. He looked down at her, too close for comfort, before she’d slid one hand up his back, curling around his neck, dragging him down and kissing him. 

Clint hadn’t quite figured out how to make good decisions at 32, so sue him for making even worse ones at nineteen. He’d mentally cursed himself for precisely that decision while Natasha dragged him to the bedroom, still more than happy to follow because he pretty much always went where Natasha told him to go, only occasionally including token complaints.

Of course it never actually became anything, just a regular hook-up when both of them were available, but of course Clint’s brain didn’t catch up on that particular memo. So, for the next two years, he’d pined after her, because, well, she was Natasha. Eventually his feelings had evolved into the deep friendship they had nowadays, soft and comfortable like an old sweater.

Clint’s friendship with Natasha was one of the best parts of his life, but he’d had a good few years to get there. This thing for James, however, was very much not a well-worn sweater of deep friendship, it was more a very fancy coat Clint saw in the window of an upper-end store that he kept pathetically walking by, knowing that the coat would probably go to some rich guy and yeah, the metaphor wasn’t really working anymore, but the point stood.

For now though, Clint got to walk back with James, a scene eerily reminiscent of a few weeks prior, when Fury had announced they would be working together. He risked a quick look, but found James already looking at him, though Clint couldn’t quite decipher exactly what it meant. James’ features quickly smoothed over to a carefully blank slate, one Clint recognised all too well from a childhood full of having to be tough. 

“Hey, Barton?” James’ voice was careful, steady and composed. Clint properly looked at him now, not a stolen glance but actually paying attention to him. They were a couple dozen meters off from where their ways parted, but James slowed his steps, for once seemingly not in a hurry to get rid of Clint as quick as he can. “You want to take a look at somethin’ special? Came across it when I was going for a hike, found somethin’ I think you’d like.”

Clint could barely keep himself from letting his jaw fall to the ground. James was  _ voluntarily  _ offering to spend extra time with him, outside of any work obligations, without any of their friends to act as a buffer? Normally, it seemed like James couldn’t get out of a room fast enough if it was just him and James. 

A few seconds too late and a bit too frantic, he nodded, following James where he’d left the actual path for a more narrow one, twisting out of sight pretty quickly between the shrubbery and dunes. As he went after James, Clint instantly regretted the whodunnit-marathon he’d held with Kate, America, and Eli Bradley a few nights prior. 

James walked ahead of him, a steady tempo and in complete silence. A few times Clint opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again when he found he didn’t know what he could say.  _ Don’t poke the bear _ , he firmly reminded himself. The last thing he wanted was to get into an argument with James now, when he finally actually spent time with him outside of any obligations.

They’d been walking for a good fifteen minutes or so when James finally spoke up, startling Clint so bad he tripped over his own feet, barely keeping himself from falling face-first into the sand. “We’re almost there.”

Clint waited a few seconds, expecting more than just the short, clipped sentence. James stayed silent, however, so Clint nodded before realising James wasn’t actually able to see him. Just as he’d actually replied, James took a sharp left, pretty much instantly disappearing from view.

Together they hiked up the dune, occasionally cursing as they tried to fight sand and thorny bushes to get to the top. Suddenly, James stopped climbing up the dune and turned around to face Clint, a finger pressed to his lips. Clint nodded and James made his way to the eastern side of the dune, motioning for Clint to follow. 

James pointed at the tussock of grass they were less than two feet away from. It took Clint a few seconds longer than he’d liked but then he saw the nest on the ground, with four small birds sleeping in it. Clint smiled, recognising the young as tawny pipits. Before he could think better of it, Clint bumped his shoulder against James’ in a quiet show of thanks. James simply beamed at him before looking back at the nest, where one of the young was beginning to stir. 

Not wanting to disturb the quiet peace of the bird’s nest, James pointed towards the top of another dune. Clint nodded, which seemed to be all he was capable of so close to James. They left the bird’s nest with one last glance, once again going through the never ending trial of going down one dune before climbing up another. 

The third time Clint almost twisted his ankle, James finally commented on it. “You’d think you’d get used to climbing up and down dunes at some point, right?” If James had made the comment a few months ago, Clint would have risen to the bait faster than a particularly dumb fish, but James’ voice lacked all the usual heat and Clint was far too content to bother antagonizing him today. 

Clint huffed a laugh, finding his footing again to make his way up to the top, only a few feet left to where James was already sat down, knees up to his chest and looking at the vast sea in front of them with a faraway smile.

It’s all too much for Clint’s fragile heart, which already had outer walls made out of marshmallow, but around James those seemed to melt away as well, filling Clint with the happy warmth of a campfire, belly full of s’mores and soft songs played on the guitar. 

Unable to look at James, he sat down next to him, legs crossed. “Thanks, James.” It’s almost too soft to hear, even for Clint’s own ears. James bumped his shoulder against his in reply, such a perfect copy of Clint’s earlier movement that Clint fell silent again, unsure of where to go now. 

“I never hated you, you know.” 

Even James seemed taken aback by his own admission. Clint felt like he was losing his footing all over again, the current suddenly different from how it had always been.

“I hated how good you were with the kids, but that’s more on me, I feel like. You connect with them so well, in a way I never could. You make them laugh, you care for them.”

James fell silent again. 

“I mean, I care for them, too, of course. Annoying little punks, absolutely, but I care for them. With you though, those kids feel safe, like they can fully exist as themselves, you know?”

More beats of silence, just the rolling waves as background white noise.

“Never quite figured out how to do that myself, exist like that. Next thing I know, you show up, not a fuckin’ care in the world and so happy working with those kids, laid-back enough I figured you were stealing some of Bruce’s greens.”

Clint snorted at that, glad to relieve some of the tension. “I mean, I do occasionally, but never around the kids.”

“Figured.”

“Also, what do you mean I showed up, I worked here first.” Clint faked indignation, hoping that it came across as the joke it was, instead of him actually being annoyed. 

Luckily, James laughed. “More like Natasha dragged me here. Can’t say I’m complaining now, though.” At that, he actually looked at Clint proper for the first time, a half-smile playing on his lips. 

Clint panicked.

Ill-advised crushes were his thing, but usually those crushes didn’t flirt. Was it even flirting? Who knew. James was smiling at him, the sun was setting into the sea and it was all very shitty airport novel all of a sudden. 

“Why does Steve call you Bucky?” is what Clint’s mouth decided to blurt out, instead of maybe testing the waters of flirting back, because  _ why would you flirt with your crush if he decided to flirt with you _ , Clint angrily asked his mouth.

Smooth sailing as ever.

“‘S a nickname I got stuck with as a kid. Too many Jameses to go around and my sister couldn’t say my middle name, Buchanan, so it turned into Bucky. Stopped liking it around college so I switched back to James, but Steve never got that particular memo.” 

“I don’t hate you, either.”

Clint chuckled before deciding, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“I mean, I did drunkenly rant to a friend about how much I disliked you, but I was a mess at that point.”

“You’re always a mess, Clint.” 

It figured the first time James said his name would be when he’s lowkey insulting him. Clint couldn’t find it in him to feel even remotely offended.

“I was jealous of you, too, you know.” 

James looked up, surprise clear on his face. “Wh-”

“Said it yourself, I’m always a mess. You were so organised. Fucking hated it when you showed up that first Friday with markers. Besides, those kids fucking love you.”

At James’ sceptical raised eyebrow, Clint nodded.

“They do. Especially some of the teenage girls, but the kids as well. They think you’re cool, all tough, you know.”

James full-on laughed at that: “Nothing quite says tough like a man-bun and painted nails.” 

Clint pointedly looked at James’ hands, nails clearly as blank as the day he was born. Still, they were really nice hands, would look even nicer around-

“Yeah, sea water doesn’t mix too well with nail polish, but I have all the time to be as gay as possible when I’m not working. Well, as bi as possible.”

Clint choked on his own spit at James’ casual coming out. Sure, he’d kind of known from stories at the bar, but stories from college are just that, stories from college. Before he made even more of a fool from himself, he nodded, hoping it conveyed his choking wasn’t homophobic shock.

“I’ll pass the information on, soon you’ll have teenage boys and girls crushing on you. Oh, and Blair of course, they already have a crush on you.” 

“I’d have to decline, my type is slightly more above eighteen. And blond.”

Clint dropped his hand from where he was ruffling his hair, suddenly very aware of the fact that he was, in fact, blond. Had James gotten closer or had he just sat down that close to him? 

“How’d you know I’d like the birds?” 

There, neutral territory, a breathing moment. Clint leaned back a bit, choosing to look at the sea in front of them instead of the open look on James’ face.

James looked almost disappointed at the question, but the expression on his face was gone so fast Clint was sure he’d imagined it. 

“Natasha told me you’d studied ornithology, you love the kids, so I figured baby birds would be right up your alley. Bit of an olive branch, if you will.”

Loathe as he was to admit it, Clint almost missed the James he used to get into fights with. Fights were easy, clear-cut. This was shaky ground, uncharted territory that made him want to lash out, retreat back behind his walls. All of a sudden James was so sincere,  _ honest _ with him. This was the man he’d been pining after, giving him something, a chance to maybe turn it into something and Clint was so  _ done _ with his own stupid flight response. He wanted this to go somewhere, goddamnit, so why couldn’t he just man up and say that?

James had extended the first olive branch, so now the ball was in his court. He was  _ looking  _ at Clint again, that soft, hopeful look that turned him inside-out, made him feel like he was worth looking at.  _ Now or never _ . He slowly raised his arm, clearly telegraphing his movement, cupping James’ jaw. 

James had tracked his hand, but when Clint’s hand had curled around his jaw, his thumb stroking the edge of his stubble, he’d smiled and his eyes had fluttered shut for a few seconds. Clint’s voice was soft, almost reverent, as he whispered: “James.”

Clint had been slowly leaning in, but when James nodded he was met with such a sudden urge of emotion, knowing James felt the same, that he could do this, that he surged forward, a bit clumsy and off-center but he couldn’t care less when their lips finally met. At the feeling of James’ soft lips, his arms coming around to wrap around his neck, James pressing closer, he let out a soft sigh. 

All the carefully constructed metaphors left Clint’s brain, leaving just a feeling of cotton candy pink clouds, blank and blissful, nothing mattered except the soft press of James’ lips meeting his, over and over. James pulled away slightly, Clint automatically chasing him. At Clint’s probably somewhat pathetic whine, James giggled, honest to God giggled, the sound so delightful that Clint also started giggling. 

“So.”

James grinned, wide and happy, pulling Clint in again. More than happy to oblige, Clint shifted, accommodating to James. At the first sweep of his tongue over Clint’s bottom lip, he opened his mouth, the hot press of his tongue making him groan. There were no fireworks, no stars or sparks, just a happy warmth filling Clint, spreading from his chest all through his body. 

They eventually pulled apart, but stayed close, content. James dropped his head to rest on Clint’s shoulder, smiling. Hoping to regain some control of how the evening had gone before his heart gave out or spontaneously melted into a puddle, he wrapped his arm around James, holding him close to his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> well. that was it. 
> 
> kudos won't fix the climate crisis but they do make me happy *wink wink nudge nudge*


End file.
